Be Still & Know
by whiskets
Summary: Maura and Jane have been friends for about six months, growing closer as they work together, to the point that they purposefully spend time together outside of work. Jane's got a problem and Maura's smart enough to figure it out and find a solution. I don't want to give anything away... One-shot, pre-pilot but spoilers for 1x01.


Title:** Be Still & Know  
**Series: Rizzoli & Isles  
Rating: Eh, we'll stick with "T"  
Pairing: I'm going to borrow Ark Thirtysix's words: "Rizzles is in the eye of the beholder"  
Timeline: Tenuously seven months before the pilot, but post Hoyt.  
Disclaimer: Nothing, but the ideas presented, are mine. No infringement, and, of course, no money gained.  
Synopsis: Maura and Jane have been friends for about six months, growing closer as they work together, to the point that they purposefully spend time together outside of work. Jane's got a problem and Maura's smart enough to figure it out and find a solution. I don't want to give anything away...

* * *

Track days are the worst. I lift weights almost every day and try to get in some form of cardio. Usually, Maura and I work out together and she has gotten me into yoga, though I would never admit it to her. Maura tells me long distance runs are good for me, great for cardiovascular strength, which I know, despite the teasing I give her, means it is good for my heart. The problem is not my body. The problem is my mind.

Maura and I are a strange mix, almost complete opposites. I am brash, abrasive, and say what I'm thinking. Maura is sweet, kind, and confusing. She does sometimes say what she's thinking, though usually it turns out all wrong and awkward. She never means those kinds of things in a bad way and I find that I can't really hold it against her, other than to give her a brief, hard time and then let it go.

My feet, in my comfortable New Balance shoes, pound across the black, rubberized surface of the track as my eyes scan across the lanes, marked out by white lines only. I am the only one out here today, the only fool to bear the ten-degree weather. Good Lord am I cold. I exhale, my breath floating out in front and behind me, fogging the polarized sunglasses that cover my eyes briefly before clearing again in the frozen air. I think of another time, when Maura ran this track with me.

"Polyurethane. It's what most modern day synthetic tracks are made with and consists of a mixture of porous and solid polyurethane." She had looked at me and smiled. I thought about calling her Doctor Wikipedia but settle for rolling my eyes and focusing on my breathing. At least she isn't trying to be my jogging coach.

I listen to my body and think about my stride. My calves aren't aching enough, which means I've been stepping incorrectly for at least this half mile. I change my position and begin to feel the burn. I increase my speed, wishing that the pain, the build-up of lactic acid (thanks, Maura) would go all the way from my legs to my brain and make it cramp, stop working, stop thinking, just _stop._

No, I don't wish for death or brain-death or anything like that. I am suddenly mad at myself and feel the anger burn through me, making the lap go by that much faster. I should've just gone to the gym, run on the treadmill, kept my eyes on the eighteen bazillion plasma TV's with mind-numbing shows. It would've kept me from thinking.

But a part of me knows I need this. I needed to feel the crisp air enter my lungs until it hurts to breathe and I want to cough like a smoker with a four pack a day habit. Physical pain is better than emotional pain. I glance at the watch on my left wrist and find that I'm moving faster than I expected. At least the unhappiness and anger are good for something. I've finished my third mile.

It hits me, all of a sudden. I stop, lock up, my hands on my thighs, bent double, trying to stop the fear that has grabbed and squeezed my heart. This was my purpose for today, for running on the track in the lovely Boston weather: to push myself until I hit exhaustion. Instead, I feel myself choking back a sob, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe normally. My left hand goes, almost subconsciously, to the uncomfortable belly band underneath my Boston PD t-shirt, where the .38 sits concealed, contained within the elastic and fabric. It is my only protection against the monsters of the world, men like Charles Hoyt, creatures who would love to get their hands on me. Creatures who terrify me and haunt my dreams.

I suppress the emotions, ironing out my features and glance around self-consciously. I don't feel the tingle on the back of my neck, the "Spidey-sense" cops develop, that keeps us safe, gives us a heads-up before the perp pulls a gun. Still, I can't help myself as I look around, survey the shining silver bleachers at the high school, the empty parking lot beyond. No one is after me today.

I start walking. I don't think I'm tired enough yet to sleep. Maura nearly saw me break down last week, and I know I can't afford that for either of us. She counts on me to be strong and I can't do any less than that for her. It is my unspoken promise to my best friend. If I can't protect myself, what good am I to her?

I pick up my pace and soon I am jogging again, my strides measured, my breathing ragged. I can't seem to get my air back, to catch my breath. I lift my chin, and inhale sharply, feeling the sting of the air as it rushes in my nose, down my throat and into my lungs. My hands hurt and I think of Hoyt.

"The mind is a very powerful tool." Maura says the words, cocking her head, looking at me like she looks at puzzles. I realize that is exactly what she is doing, puzzling me out. She sees the dark smudges under my eyes, the paleness of my skin and she is looking for a cause. I can almost see her thoughts. I'm not sick, not anemic, not hung over…what else could there be? I make a joke, stupid though it is, and it distracts her and I think I've done it again. I've concealed my brokenness from the woman that I don't show fragility to. Not ever.

Sweat rolls down my back in beads and I grimace to myself as I think of cleaning the .38 again. The bellyband will definitely have to go into the washer. My breathing is a little easier, a little more controlled as I round the outside of the track. As I cross the boundary line, I realize to my surprise that I've finished miles four and five. My mind is still trying to push the issue so I spur myself on to the next lap.

For just a moment, I allow myself to wonder. Could I tell Maura…? I find myself swallowing involuntarily as I imagine the conversation. She would probably be her usual sweet and supportive self…but our relationship would be different. She would see my flaws…see the chinks in my armor. I feel the fear sneak in again, twisting my gut, making it harder to breathe. I pump my legs faster.

My brow furrows half in concentration and half in determination. No. Telling Maura would be a bad idea, probably one of the worst ones I've ever had. And I've had a few spectacular ones. It didn't take much for us to be friends, and somehow, she seems to see the best in me. I'm not about to show her the worst. Decision made, I finish my last mile. The burden should be lifted; yet, it feels heavier than ever.

I guzzle two bottles of water and decimate a banana on the car ride from the track to my apartment. Halfway to my place, I found I was in the right turn lane, my mind plotting out the path to Maura's. I tell myself that my goal was successful; I've tired myself out so much from my run that I'm on autopilot and heading to the nearest place to crash. I make it up the stairs to my apartment. I feel the tingle and suddenly, I'm wide-awake, hand reaching for the .38, body canted to make a smaller target, doing an Israeli lean from the hallway, eyes on the door. I'm trying to think, to realize what has sparked this reaction in my body. I back up, gun out in a two handed grip and begin moving, angling myself so that I can see the apartment hallway and my front door. I'm thinking of calling the police…but I am the police. My lip curls as I think about my earlier thoughts. If I can't protect myself…

My next move is daring and reckless and I realize, even as my body performs the action, that I am not brave or fearless. I am stupid. The door to my apartment is open a hair, which is what my sympathetic nervous system reacted to, flooding my system with adrenaline. I am all fight; never flight. I kick the door open and push in, past the doorframe, what the instructors call the fatal funnel, my eyes ping ponging across the open room, taking in my surroundings, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything wrong. Eyes and gun, they move as one, sweeping the living room and kitchen. I freeze, my arms tense, punching the .38 out, my body falling into a modified Weaver stance, hands gripping the revolver like a tea-cup and saucer. I aim at the figure on the couch for a moment while my mind catches up, disperses the fear, makes me see reason. I lower my gun and hold it loosely in my left hand. I wonder what my face looks like.

Maura is on my couch, her features a smooth, calm mask. I am breathing hard and I inhale, hold it, let it out. The trembling starts then, first in my hands, and I can't control it. It's the aftereffect of adrenaline, coupled with the exhaustion that comes from my run and the lack of sleep I've been experiencing. For what seems to be an eternity, I gaze at Maura and she gazes back, that smooth, smooth mask unbroken. I can't tell what she's thinking but I know I'm not going to get out of this one with a joke. Maybe I can escape with a lie?

Maura breaks the silence even as I open my mouth to speak, which is lucky, because I'm not even sure what I was going to say.

"Jane."

She says my name and I feel my heart squeeze again. I can't tell her the truth. I cannot. I repeat that in my head, over and over again, until it becomes my mantra. I change it to will not. I will not tell her the truth.

I feel my features twist, a mix of anger that I don't really feel, and concern. "Maura, what the hell are you doing here?"

She eyes me and holds up her cell phone. "You forgot to meet me for coffee. I called you and didn't get a response so I came over here. The door was open."

I feel a chill move through me. My face flushes, the blood draining from my face as fear, terrible, terrible fear moves through me and makes it hard to breathe. The gun is up again, pointed at my bedroom, towards what is potentially a threat, towards the monsters like Charles Hoyt. My mind recedes slightly as training takes over. My voice, when I speak, is devoid of emotion, steely with the intensity I feel in that moment.

"Maura, stand up and move behind me. Do it now."

I spare a glance at her, though I know I shouldn't, and see her mouth open, her features confused. She doesn't argue and I'm thankful.

"Open my cell phone and call Korsak."

I don't look at her again to see if she is complying. I am moving with single-minded determination towards my bedroom. I pull the .38 in, towards my chest, so that the person hiding in my bedroom can't snatch it from my hands. I push the door open and sweep the room as tactically as I can before entering. I clear the room slowly and methodically, searching any areas that I imagine a person…no, a _child_, could hide in. I perform the same tactics in my bathroom.

I find no one except a very confused and slightly frightened looking Maura.

"Korsak says he is on his way," she says. She keeps glancing from my face to the bedroom and back. "Jane, what is going on?"

There is a knock on my front door and I jump, swinging the gun around wildly. I am out of control and I know it. I take a breath and steady myself. I walk to the door, peer through the peephole and see Marisa, my next-door neighbor. She has something in her hands. I drop the gun to my side again and open the door. Marisa smiles, and if she knows something is wrong with me, she doesn't say anything, just holds out a pan to me.

"Hey, Jane, I borrowed your brownie pan earlier today. I saw your car wasn't downstairs so I figured you were out. I tried to lock your door but for some reason, it wouldn't stay locked so I called the super. He said he'll fix it later today."

I smile, though I'm sure it looks as fake as it is, and nod, taking the pan with my right hand. Marisa can't see the revolver at my side, doesn't know that I'm already at Defcon one.

Marisa shakes her head and holds up her phone. "I texted you to let you know what was going on. I'm sorry, Jane, I hated to leave your apartment open but I didn't know what else to do and I know you lock up your guns so…I hope you're not mad…?"

I'm not sure what emotion is on my face but I know I'm not mad at her. I gave her permission and I'm sure, if I had taken my phone with me, I would've already known about the situation. I'm actually a little worried. If Marisa's key wasn't locking the door, was mine? I feel panic punch through me. How long has my door been open to the world? I shake my head and force another smile that must look like a grimace.

"Oh, no way, Marisa. I'm not mad at you. If you hadn't borrowed the pan, I might never have known. Thank you."

She drops her eyes and nods, and I know she can feel the tension. It is misguided. I'm mad at myself, not the brunette in front of me.

"Seriously. Thanks." I say it again, and this time she smiles tentatively. She turns and leaves and I shut the door quietly, forgetting, momentarily, that I have an audience. I lean my forehead on the painted wood and exhale, my eyes closed. I am exhausted. Maura's heels are quiet in the carpet and I don't hear her approach me. She puts a gentle hand on my left shoulder and I whirl, though thankfully, the gun stays at my side. My eyes are wide and my breathing has sped up. She looks at me, her head cocked to the side, her eyes narrowed and I realize, too late, that she has deciphered the puzzle. I am caught.

I push past her, brusquely, and open the drawer of the small oak writing desk, setting the .38 inside the drawer, beside my service weapon and badge. My eyes are caught by the glint of gold and I think about the oath I have taken to serve and protect. I can't break it now. I take as much time settling the items in the drawer before turning back to face Maura. She is standing, looking at me, wearing, as she always does, an outfit perfect for a runway model. Her hair is just right, every strand in place and her makeup impeccable. The feature that breaks this image is her eyes. Her eyes are focused on me like lasers and I can read sorrow and guilt there, until I can't take it and drop mine to the ground, studying the rug I find below my feet. I repeat the mantra: I will not tell her. It seems to have lost some of its conviction in the face of my best friend.

"Jane, I want to know: what's wrong? Why are you avoiding me?"

She's right. After I almost lost my composure last week, I've tried to limit the time we spent together. And now, she is here, in my apartment. We are far apart, but suddenly, the room seems too small. I begin to turn away from her, to take a step towards the kitchen. Her follow-up question nails me to the floor.

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

I swallow involuntarily, trying to add some moisture to my parched throat. It does me no good. She takes a step, then another, and we are close. I feel her soft fingers under my chin as she raises my head so that I have no choice but to look her in the eye. I chew the side of my cheek quickly, an old speech trick that floods my mouth with saliva. My voice cracks anyway.

"I'm sleeping just fine," I lie, offering a small smile. My tone is low and could give me away. I take a step back so that we aren't touching anymore.

"I'm sorry. I came home and found the door to my apartment open. I thought someone had broken in…"

The explanation I offer is reasonable, right? In my tired state, I'm not sure anymore.

Maura's head is canted to the side, her honey blonde hair framing her concerned face. She looks slightly disappointed as she shakes her head.

"Jane, I can read microexpressions. Why are you lying to me?"

I feel myself go as still as a statue. I must breathe but I don't even feel my chest rise or fall. I didn't know she could do that. I don't say anything out loud but I repeat my mantra to myself. I will not tell her. Anger floods in and adds color to my cheeks.

"I'm _not_ lying," I say defensively. "I need to text Korsak and tell him everything's okay, that he doesn't need to come over. Everything's okay," I repeat as I take a few steps to the couch, where I can see my black cell perched on the arm. I text him the message, purposefully taking my time with each button press. I am biding my time until I have to look at her again. I send the message and sit the phone gingerly on the arm, my eyes still occupied by the couch.

Maura's question makes me turn sharply to her. "Is it…?" Her words are quiet and I am confused.

"Is what?"

"Is everything okay?"

She is like a dog with a bone. She will not let the issue rest. I think quickly. She did not accept my first lie, would she accept a second? I think of the game two truths and a lie and wonder if she'll be able to read me if I mix the truth and lies. I decide to test the theory.

I sigh deeply. "No, Maura, everything is not okay." I see her lean towards me, standing on the rug by the writer's desk, the quick intake of breath as her eyes rove over my face. "This case has me…uneasy. Murders are never alright…but this one…this one is worse."

Maura blinks and I see her considering my words. I hope my face and whatever expressions, micro or otherwise, displayed there confirm my words. The case we, Frost, Korsak, Maur and I, are working is difficult. It has gotten me a little upset, or at least, this is the half-truth I offer to her. I am silent as I watch her and hope that she will believe my story.

I cross to the couch and plop down, afraid she will see the trembling in my hands, afraid my knees will give way. I grab a throw pillow and cover my lap, hiding my hands by playing with the rounded edges. Maura watches me fidget and sits down beside me so that she is facing me. She is still appraising me.

"You're lying." It is an accusation, one that is spoken so softly it could almost be my Jiminy Cricket, my conscious, speaking to me. I open my mouth to protest and she holds up a single finger. I falter and allow her to have her say.

"I've only known you about six months now, detective," Maura starts. "I understand if you don't want me to know everything about you. However, I've never known you to flat out lie to me. You've teased and baited me. That is a part of our relationship," she speaks honestly and I clench my jaw, feeling the muscle jump. Messing with the doc is fun, even more so now that she has finally come to understand how to tease back, even if not all of her jokes are funny.

"You have hidden some things from me," Maura concedes to me, nodding her head. "But you've never lied to me. I can see the dark circles under your eyes and your face is paler and puffier. I've noticed how much coffee you've been consuming lately: three times your normal intake. Then, there's the state of hyperarousal you've just demonstrated to me."

I jerk abruptly. "Maura, I'm no more or less aroused than normal!" I protest, only half-serious. I am trying to deter the doctor with humor. I see her fight to control her eye-roll response. She succeeds, determined to press on.

"Hyperarousal. It is another term for Walter Bradford Cannon's fight or flight instinct, when the body is flooded with cortisol and norephineprine and other stress hormones so that you are ready to-"

"Fight or flight," I interrupt, "Yeah, yeah, Maura, I get it…except what does it have to do with me?"

"It's part of the reason you're not sleeping," she says simply. "You're afraid."

She says it and it suddenly seems so black and white. I am afraid. I_ am_ afraid.

But I can't tell her that. I shake my head. "I'm fine, Maura," I insist. What she does next is not fair.

Maura lunges towards me, her hands outstretched and I am up, out of my seat, flying to the drawer where both firearms are. My fingers are tightening on the knob before my mind can catch up, reassure me that there is no threat, certainly not from Maura. I am panting, half-crouched, ready to go to war against…nothing. My eyes flicker back to Maura who has settled herself back on her side of the couch, watching me.

"I thought so," she says quietly.

"That wasn't fair," I say through gritted teeth. I find that I am mad at her, angry at her little trick.

"No," she admits, "It wasn't." Her voice remains quiet. "What are you not telling me?"

I open my mouth to speak, to let out another lie. I surprise myself with the truth, mantra forgotten.

"I can't sleep." I say three little words and I feel the walls inside me begin to crumble. Numbly, I make my way to the couch and sit down, pulling my knees to my chest, feeling small and needing to make myself smaller. I wrap my arms around my knees, holding myself in, knowing it's a defensive, reassuring posture and not caring. I let my gaze drift over the model-perfect woman seated in front of me, who regards me with kind, patient eyes. Fortunately for both of us, she makes no move to touch me as I think that would be too much for me to bear.

"I am afraid, Maura. I used to not be, but since Hoyt…" I sigh and break off. "This case, I think because it involved a doctor…I started having nightmares. And then I would wake up and think I was back there…" I lower my voice to a whisper. "In the basement…pinned…"

I stop. I can't keep speaking. Maura doesn't know, not really. Only Korsak knows. He saw it first hand, my fragility, as that bastard tried to break me, scarred me, made me fearful. Maura hasn't seen that. I don't want her to see me that way. I put my chin on my knees and I lose focus, seeing the monster's face inches from mine, the white-hot poker of pain in each palm as he leered over me. In that moment, I hadn't given up, but I was beyond scared or terrified. There was no word to describe what I felt.

"How long have you been having the nightmares?" Maura speaks into the silence and I jump. I had forgotten she was there.

"A month."

"Did you tell anyone?"

I shake my head, knowing she already knows the answer. "No."

"What is the longest amount of time you have slept in any time block?"

"Four hours, maybe."

Maura nods. "Okay. Go take a shower."

I raise my eyebrows at this sudden change in topic. "Uh…what?" I blurt the words with my usual candor.

"Go take a shower," she repeats the command calmly. "Once you're clean, I'll explain everything."

I'm not sure where she's going with this, but I realize that we will be apart and it will give me time to come up with an appropriate lie or reason why I haven't slept…to downplay that which I've already admitted to. I wonder if I can take the admission back, make her think about something else so that she can't get further past my defenses. I've already stripped off my clothes; made sure the two towels are hanging within reach and am standing under the spray of water so hot it nearly scalds. My body goes through the motions of cleaning while my mind races. What had I actually told Maura? I told her that I was having nightmares, related to Hoyt, brought on by the case we are working on. It is a kind of lie. I have nightmares almost every night. Not only did Hoyt leave scars on my body but he has left them on my mind, on my subconscious, helped me create my very own nightmare factory.

The images flood my mind's eye and I remember his hot breath on my neck and face, the glee in his eyes as he realized who I was, my own body betraying me with a whimper of fear that escaped through gritted teeth. I pull my thoughts back to the present and realize I've been standing in cold water for at least the last five minutes. I feel bone-numb and tired as I turn off the water and step from the shower. I leave my dirty clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, suddenly feeling like I am a hundred years old and picking the bundle up would be just too much. I wrap the towels around my body and hair and my hands throb from the cold water. I move slowly and automatically in my bedroom, drying myself off, reaching for a pair of lounge pants and a green tank top. I am just pulling the clothes on when I hear a soft knock on the door. I know its Maura, so why am I surprised when I find her still there?

I stand there, one hand on the open door, my body blocking entry, as if I'm considering slamming it in her face. I briefly consider this option. A fight, a break-up of sorts, and our friendship would be over and no one would have to know that the great, self-reliant Jane Rizzoli is really a coward ruled by fear. Perhaps Maura reads my thoughts on my face because she reaches out with her own hand and covers mine. That action prevents me from putting my hastily constructed plan into action. I am not a touchy-feely kind of person. I hate sensitivity training, think it's a waste of time, no matter how many times I'm ordered to under go it. So why do I feel like I suddenly need this woman's touch? That maybe it would be okay to let her comfort me?

"Jane," she says, her voice quiet in the space between us. "Will you let me help you?"

We are still touching. I find myself nodding. Wait. When did I decide to do that? I trust Maura but…what the hell is happening to me?

She steps past me, gently shutting the door, so that we are closed in the bedroom. It is much darker than I realized and I must've left the black out curtains in place in the hopes that I would be tired enough to sleep, no matter the hour. I pull away from her and click on a small lamp beside my bed. The light offers meager illumination, enough that I can see her watching me as I turn around. I sit on the made bed, my back against the headboard and wait.

Maura doesn't speak. She turns her back to me, eyes scanning across the room. She has been in here before, but she didn't know about me then… My confession of fear has made the space feel more intimate than the times that she has helped me pick out an outfit for a date or helped me change the sheets, upping the thread count at her insistence. I know that the sheets on the bed now are the ones she talked me into buying three weeks ago.

Whatever she is looking for, she spots and closes the distance quickly to the wall outlet, her right hand cupped around a small object. She squats, an accomplished feat in the flowing dress she's wearing, and plugs something in. When she stands, I see the small nightlight shaped like a child's baseball. A nightlight. Dr. Maura Isles has brought me a nightlight. She turns and looks at me expectantly.

I smile at her, the expression kind in the light's glow. I reach over and turn off the bedside light so that I can see the nightlight that much better. I find myself touched that Maura has thought of me, even more, to remember my favorite sport. I see her form moving in the partial darkness, feel the bed shift as she comes to sit on it, beside me. I feel the comforter and sheets moving.

"Maura, what are you doing?"

She doesn't answer me at first but I know she is looking at me. She is under the sheets, mirroring me as she leans against the headboard, her body canted towards mine.

"You, Jane Rizzoli, are going to get some sleep, achieve a state which will allow REM, and awake feeling rested and refreshed. And if you have any nightmares…" she stops and I look at her expectantly. "I'll be here to wake you up."

I consider her words. My body feels leaden, like someone has attached extra weight to each limb. I don't know if I want to move. Would it really be that terrible to let her in? Letting her see me sleep…she already knew I was afraid, had gotten enough out of me to know why. I'm already vulnerable…I find that I don't care. Normally, I would protest, try to explain why this was not socially acceptable. Maybe, just this once, I can let someone else be a guardian, just for a little while.

I see the look of surprise and satisfaction flicker in her eyes when I nod. "Okay." I peel back the covers and stuff my tired body in, burrowing into the warmth of the sheets. I feel her body heat beside me as I lay on my back, willing myself to sleep. I roll over onto my side, facing towards the door as my hands ache and I stiffen, jaw clenched against the twinges of pain. My shoulders are tight as I look at the door and see the small push-button out, meaning the door isn't locked.

"Shhh," Maura says gently. "You're alright. I'm here. I'm right here." I feel her hand drape over my head, smoothing through my hair. She repeats the motion and I feel my eyes itching. I want to sleep so badly. I close my eyes and find that I'm wired. I can't sleep. Closing my eyes, giving into that which I need so badly, would be a concession that I can't afford. I will be asleep, unaware, unable to protect anyone. I fight the tiredness in my body and my form stays stiff with tension.

Maura's voice drifts to me. "Jane…you have to sleep," she says and there is an edge of realism there. "If you don't, you won't be at your best, and you could make a mistake." She is trying a different tactic.

I roll over so that I am facing her as she also lies on her side. "Maura, what if I already have?"

Her eyes narrow as she studies my face. "What do you mean?"

I try to push myself up, to break this trance she seems to have cast over me. She captures my shoulder and pushes me back down easily. I am surprised. Maura is not physically stronger than me. I settle into an uncomfortable silence.

"Talk to me, Jane."

She won't allow me physical distance so I close my eyes. "I should never have told you," I say quietly but vehemently.

"Oh, Jane…"

It is the way that she says my name that forces me to open my eyes. My dark brown eyes meet her hazel ones and I see many things within their depths.

"You can't hide from me," she says. "The sooner you realize that, the better. You can stop expending the energy. I knew something was wrong three weeks ago, but I had hoped you would tell me in your own time. I forgot," and she smiles slightly, "How hard headed you can be."

My lips lift in a ghost of a smile. I am so tired.

"Talk to me. Please," she adds and it is the magic word.

My voice is low and raspy as I speak, her eyes glowing in the light cast. "I'm the action hero," I say and I see her smile. She is not laughing, though I know she can see the humor in what I say, but her smile is encouraging and I continue. "I'm supposed to protect my friends, my colleagues…my family. I couldn't protect myself from Hoyt. What happens when another monster comes after me? Will I be able to protect myself? Or will I have to go through another round of this? Will I just shut down, stop functioning, give up?" Even as I speak, I remember, and I pull myself together tighter, my hands clenching in the dark. I know, if I care to look, the scars will be shiny and white, taunt against the tendons in my hands. I don't care to look.

I feel movement in the sheets and realize Maura has grasped my hand. Her other hand reaches out, delicately, and pushes a strand of hair off of my face, behind my ear. It is a sweet and comforting gesture.

"You know, you don't have to go through this alone. I know you feel like you can't tell your family, and that's perfectly fine. But you have me. You can tell me anything and if you're going through something like this, I want to be there for you. Hoyt is a monster. But you stopped him and saved countless lives. Even heroes are afraid, sometimes…like Perseus when he fought Medusa…" she draws to a close when she sees my face. I know Maura can't help herself. She is a genius after all.

"My point is, you can talk to me. You can tell me. I can help keep the monsters at bay." The last sentence is said softly and with conviction. I believe her. She squeezes my hand, beneath the sheets, and lets go. Whatever she saw on my face has convinced her, so that when I turn over, and give her my back, she understands. I feel her pull me a little closer and I exhale deeply. I feel the weight of her arm across my hips and I feel…safe. The shadows in my room no longer contain Hoyt or his ilk. I feel myself relax. As my eyes close, I hear her whisper.

"I'm here."

* * *

Hope you liked it. I sat and typed for a few hours, until it was out of my head (haha) and I had re-written it about three times. Please Review-too out of character?


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